After that night, the language began to fall into place. It was as if Zan had been standing at the bottom of a well, trying to hear what the people at the top were shouting down to her, but catching only muffled, blurred sounds that sometimes made a little sense, but more often drove her into a frenzy of frustration. Suddenly, she was up there almost at the top of the well, and she could hear and understand things that had mystified her only days before. The more she understood, the freer she felt, as if she were bursting out of confining walls.
But, to Zan’s dismay, she discovered that understanding was easier than being understood. She continued to mangle words so that half the time she simply amused people, while the other half she was misunderstood. “Please—you take me—to the meadow,” she said to Burrum, this being the purpose of having learned the language. Burrum readily agreed, but later Zan found herself following her around the perimeter of a bog while Burrum searched for a plant whose name was pronounced almost like the word for meadow. When that was straightened out, Burrum took her to three different fields on three successive days before Zan found the words to pinpoint the meadow she meant.
“Meadow-with-Watering-Hole!” Burrum said. “Yes, I will take you to that place. What will you do there, Meezzan? I want to see if those honey flowers have bloomed yet.”
“Flowers?” said Zan, who had understood almost everything. “No flowers. I want—to run—home.” But as the word for home was the same as for cave, Burrum was puzzled by this response.
“One does not go to the caves in Meadow-with-Watering-Hole.”
Zan tried again. “I want to run—go!—away. A far place. My home. My mother. My father. My brother like Lishum.”
“But that is Beyond-the-Mountains,” Burrum said. She squeezed Zan’s arm. “Do not go there. Do not go away from me. My belly is sad to think you will go away from me. I will cut off a finger if you leave me.” Now Burrum was talking nonsense, or perhaps Zan had misunderstood. In the morning, however, after swimming and washing, Burrum finally agreed they could go to Meadow-with-Watering-Hole; she was in no hurry as, indeed, she never was, and stopped often to gather nuts and dig roots. Coming up on a spreading patch of small, satiny-leaved plants in the forest, Burrum knelt down and began digging. “My mother will be so happy when I bring her these M’wa roots,” she said, lifting a short slender root resembling a little white carrot from the earth. She brushed off the dirt and bit into it, then offered Zan the rest. But Zan couldn’t eat anything. She felt like a needle, hard, shining, sharpened to a point of expectation that was nearly excruciating. “Please—hurry, come!”
For weeks Zan had been dreaming of the moment when she would return to the boulder in the meadow. She had imagined in great detail how she would go to exactly the spot where she had first opened her eyes, how she would sit down just as she’d done in Mechanix Park, her back against the stone, her eyes squeezed shut, and then—at this point she usually skipped over “It”.
She had begun to refer to that shattering, bone-shaking silverstorm as “It”—as if this would somehow encompass the awesomeness, the ferocity, the terror. “It”. Not the “storm,” or the “force,” but the mysterious, all- encompassing “It.” In her mind she let “It” blur and visualized herself immediately home. The greetings. The questions. The tears. The amazement and joy and relief. Her parents’ tear-stained faces, the wonder they would feel that she was home, alive, unharmed. What they must have gone through! There was a fist squeezing behind Zan’s ribs.
She followed Burrum through the forest not even trying to focus on the path. If all went well, she wouldn’t be coming back again. She linked arms with Burrum.
“I think those honey flowers will be in bloom now,” Burrum said. She held up one hand, fingers spread wide, and singsonged, “Grass Moon, Moon of the Long Night Egg Moon, Bird Flight Moon, Fire Moon, Season of Rains, Rain Moon, Moon of Tears.” She smiled. “Meezzan! Then the Sussuru, the beautiful Sussuru!”
“Yes, the Sussuru,” Zan said vaguely. She knew it had something to do with girls. She wished Burrum would walk faster. Was it possible that once she had hardly been able to keep up with her?
“Shall I tell you a story?” Burrum said. “Meezzan, listen, I am going to tell you about the spirit Miiawa and the Hera Hera Hutumy. This is a very great story, a story my mother told me long ago. She was told the same story by her mother, who was told by her mother. And I will tell my daugher this story, also.” She peered into Zan’s face.
Zan nodded, even though she only partially understood what Burrum was saying. “You will like this story,” Burrum said firmly. “Long ago Miiawa lived in her forest, this very forest we are in now, and she was happy. Everything in this forest was then white, green, black. Birds, plants, animals, all were white, green, black. That was the way things were.
“One day the Hera Hera Hutumy came. These also were spirits, like Miiawa, but from another place far far away. Perhaps from Beyond-the-Mountains. Certainly not from such a fine place as this forest! Therefore, when the Hera Hera Hutumy saw how fine everything was in Miiawa’s forest, how birds, plants, and animals all praised Miiawa, they were full of envy. ‘You think you are the best,’ they taunted Miiawa, ‘but you are missing something we poor Hera Hera Hutumy have.’ Miiawa said, ‘Tell me what it is.’ But the Hera Hera Hutumy climbed into the trees and refused to speak. Miiawa was very upset. She said, ‘I must know what they have.’ So she changed into the shape of Bear and stood on her hind legs, growling and putting out her great, sharp claws. To drive away Bear, the Hera Hera Hutumy made rain fall on the forest, so much rain that the forest became a lake. Miiawa changed herself into a huge bird and flew over the heads of the Hera Hera Hutumy. ‘Stop this rain’ she cried, but the Hera Hera Hutumy only screeched to each other, ‘Get that noisy bird away. The waters are rising. Quickly, make some land, or we will all be drowned.’ This was the kind of spirits they were. They could bring the rain, but they could not make it stop. One of them dived into the water, down, down, searching for some earth, but before this Hera Hera Hutumy could find earth, it drowned. And still the rain fell and the waters rose.
“The Hera Hera Hutumy climbed higher into the trees, and another one dived down into the water, down, down, down, very far indeed. This Hera Hera Hutumy did find a few grains of earth, but before it could bring these bits of earth up to make land, it, too, drowned. And still the rains fell. The other Hera Hera Hutumy clung to the very top branches of the trees screeching to Miiawa, ‘You make some land!’ But Miiawa wanted to punish them and simply flew about their heads, her wings making a great noise like thunder. Now the Hera Hera Hutumy saw that Miiawa was surely a greater spirit than they were, and they sang out, just as the waters were rising to their heads, ‘Red! Red! That is what we have. Red everywhere.’
“When she heard this, Miiawa changed into the shape of an otter and dived down to the bottom of the water to get earth. This she patted into an island where all the animals and birds were safe until the rains stopped. The Hera Hera Hutumy went away, back to their own place. And everything was as before, except Miiawa was not so happy. Now she knew she did not have red in her forest. She wanted red, and really she was very unhappy.
“Then one day a girl of the People came into Miiawa’s forest. This girl’s blood was coming down, as it did every moon. And the blood dripped red, red, red, on the forest floor. And Miiawa, seeing this red blood, was so happy that wherever the blood dripped red, red, red, she made red flowers grow, very small red flowers. And she said to this girl, ‘I am going to watch out for you. You can come into this forest without fear.’ So this was true. Because Miiawa is watching, girls and women go into the forest without fear now. And every year when the little red flowers grow in the forest, all the girls whose blood has come down for the first time are happy and make the Sussuru, Miiawa’s Festival.” Burrum flung out her arms. “Meezzan! Was that not a beautiful story?”
“Yes. Yes. Hurry, come—please?” Zan said. Someplace in the middle of Burr
um’s tale she had gotten lost, though she had followed the bit at the end about red flowers and blood. Yes, and something about big waters, and animals (she thought) who climbed trees.
“I am waiting for my blood to come down,” Burrum said. Zan knew this because Burrum had said it before, and not just once. But the first time Zan had heard the words she couldn’t make out their meaning. Blood coming down? Was someone hurt? Then, after a while, she had made the connection.
Strange. Burrum talking about menstrual blood as if it were something beautiful, rather than something you really wanted to hide.
“How happy I will be when my blood comes! And you, Meezzan, has your blood come down?”
Zan shook her head. “No,” she said awkwardly. She wondered if she’d ever see red flowers again without thinking of Burrum. She had been in Burrum’s company for thirty-six days, according to her calendar. Now she was going to leave her and would never see her again. She wanted to say something fine and moving to Burrum, but when they came to the meadow, she didn’t even know how to say goodbye. She couldn’t remember ever having heard the word in the People’s language. Instead she took Burrum’s hands and held them tightly for a moment. “Run back—no, walk— go—to the caves.” She pointed along the path. “I will —(she couldn’t think of the word for ‘stay’)— sit here.”
“Then I will sit with you,” Burrum said, as if there were nothing strange in Zan’s having asked to come to the meadow simply to sit there.
Zan shook her head. “No. Run back. Go back!”
“But you will get lost alone,” Burrum said. “You know, Meezzan, you are like a baby in the forest. Don’t be angry that I say this.” She pulled at Zan’s hand. “Look, over there!” She pointed to a vivid patch of yellow flowers bending slightly beneath a wind which had sprung up. “The honey flowers are in bloom.”
Zan tried to remember from which direction she’d come that first day. It seemed long ago. She had forgotten how high the grass grew, and that there were several mammoth boulders like “her” boulder. A dark cloud passed across the sun.
“Sit—here,” she said to Burrum and struck off into the field. What if Burrum had brought her to the wrong meadow? How could anyone tell one from another? No, that wasn’t fair. Burrum knew. Zan remembered the little pond in which she had washed her steaming face. What had Burrum called this? Yes—Meadow-with-Watering-Hole.
She glanced over her shoulder. At the edge of the field, Burrum was waving to her. “Meezzan,” she called, her hands cupped around her mouth, the wind blowing away her words, “Thunder comes!” She pointed upward. The sky was suddenly dark. Ragged clouds passed across the sun, massing together and throwing deep shadows over the meadow. Zan hurried distractedly from one spot to another. She circled a boulder—hers? No, too small. The meadow grasses were tinged with black, the air became sulphurous.
Zan made go-away motions to Burrum, but the girl didn’t move. The grass crackled as Zan pushed forward, sure that the boulder ahead was hers. A splatter of rain fell on her head. Birds moved uneasily between the trees at the edge of the field. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Zan ran forward and there it was, the boulder. The same one, she was sure.
She dropped to the ground, back against the stone, knees drawn up. Now. Now. Now. Let it happen. She tensed, remembering how she had been shaken, flung, flayed. I’m ready. Green lightning zigzagged across the horizon. She shut her eyes, thinking of Cici, Ivan, Buddy. The names were bittersweet in her mind. But in back of her eyes she still saw the meadow grass, the blurred, dark flights of birds, and Burrum’s face with that blunt little nose and the eyes so often fixed on Zan in a rather greedy, affectionate look. With an effort, she banished these images, concentrating on the past But of course, she meant the future—or was it the present?
Come on. I’m waiting, I’m here, come on, come on, come on, COME ON . . . Rain struck her hard in the face. Opening her eyes she saw the field, the trees, the sky. Nothing had happened. She rolled over, her forehead against the ground, and beat her fists in a rage on the damp earth. An ache of pain and self-pity filled her throat. Why had she been so sure she could make it happen, just like that like snapping her fingers. “No,” she said, “No, no, no, no.”
Minute by minute, the sky darkened. Rain was now falling steadily. Burrum called to her. Zan could hear her voice, thready, through the wind.
All right. It was only one try. She’d come to the meadow again. And again. And as many times as she had to, make “It” happen. She’d win, finally. She had to believe it. She couldn’t believe anything else and go on living. She wiped her face and started back through the wet grass toward Burrum, who was waiting under a tree, holding a large leaf over her head, with another one in her free hand for Zan.
Chapter 16
Try again. As week after week passed, those words Zan had said so fiercely mocked her. Try again. She did. Tried, and tried, and tried to make “It” happen. The field became familiar, an old friend. She could have found her way to it in the dark. The boulder was her lodestone. There, at first, she was careful to sit in a certain way, to arrange her hands just so, to concentrate on the same mental images. Nothing happened. Zero! Zilch! It made her furious.
Then she decided to change her tactics and approach the boulder in whatever mood seized her. She would grip the stone with both hands as if to force herself into it, demanding that “It” happen. Or she would lean supplicatingly, forehead bent to the rough surface, imploring, first silently, then aloud, as if the boulder were alive and willful. “Take me back,” she cried. “Take me back!” The next time she might touch the surface gently, almost reverently, bending her neck to its power, making promises to God and boulder and “It” and time. “If only you will… I will never do … I will always be . . .” And then, the humility dry in her mouth, she would beat on it with her fists. “I hate you, I hate you.”
All to no avail.
Often, there in the meadow, she visualized her home clearly, could see even small details like the worn spot on the living room rug where everyone crossed to go to the kitchen, or the tiny burn hole in her plaid wool blanket from the time she was experimenting with a magnifying glass. She could see the Woolworth green glass dessert dishes and the big lopsided copper ashtray Ivan had made in shop. She saw everything clearly, yet gradually it all seemed to become more and more unreal, as if all these things were only memories of a dream she had dreamed in a dream.
When she fell into this mood, she squeezed her head between her hands, berating herself, “idiot! Crazy girl!” But was it crazy to wonder if she would ever see her home and family again?
Often at the caves she would take out her button, safety pin, knife, and key. At once an audience would collect, squatting and watching her every move. Sometimes she resented them. She wanted to be left alone! But other times she found it diverting to teach them something and, pointing to each object, she would name it.
“Nii’uff,” they said after her, drawling the word out into two syllables. “Kee.” “Baa’tun.” “Saftee Pan.” And she, as Diwera had done for her once, would say, “Eno!” But the little game became disturbing when they reached out to take her things, wanting to pass them around among themselves. She had taught Burrum to leave them alone. Now she taught everyone else. Whenever a hand stretched out, she snatched the four objects and held them behind her in her fist. Finally, she made a little bag out of softened bark to hold them and kept the bag in the special niche in the cave. She was fierce about not allowing anyone to touch it. These things were her only link to her own world.
After a while, Zan developed a special way of looking at her possessions. She would sit on the ground, legs outstretched, bark bag by her side, and slowly, deliberately, bring out the knife, then the locker key, the safety pin, and finally the button. She would arrange them on her right leg in a rough pyramid with the knife as the base, key and safety pin as the sides, and the button as the apex. Each time, she would repeat her actions in exactly the same sequence. In
some way, only dimly comprehended, this precise little rite reassured her that she was herself—Zan Ford—not the girl named Meezzan who had discarded her clothes and shoes, who cut her hair with a knife, who wore only a little bark flap around her waist, sucked raw eggs, and shared a bed with nearly a dozen other people. There were some days when she felt divided, half Zan, half Meezzan. Other days she forgot about Zan and was all Meezzan.
There was one long day when she became completely involved in games with Sonte, Burrum, Akawa, Em’Fadi, Goah, and Naku. They swam to an island to drink the juice of an acid fruit that made them giggly and frolicky. They threw each other into the water and sprawled on the beach, laughing and gossiping. And Sonte hugged Zan, rubbing his nose against her shoulder. All afternoon she was aware of him, his square firm shoulders, the way he drew his eyebrows together so fiercely, so stubbornly. She liked him. Oh, yes.
But hours later, realizing how she had drifted away from herself, away from Zan Ford, she was struck with terror, then a numb acceptance. Wasn’t it true that she would never return home? That what had happened once wouldn’t happen again? She was here. Caught like an insect in a jar with no escape. Why not stop struggling? Gradually she would forget that Zan ever existed. She would grow up here, have children, get old, die.
But then again, there were hours and days when she rejected Meezzan fiercely, was apart from them all, when she drew something invisible around her, not quite a glass wall, but a keep-away-from-me shield over her face, in her voice, when the thought of living here and dying here made her dizzy with despair. She would think then about her family, about the day she was mugged, and the morning after when Ivan took her diary. In one way it seemed remote, like a story she’d seen on TV a long time ago. But at the same time she clearly remembered Billy Gold snorting with hysterical delight over her private thoughts. And, as if the event were fresh and new, she would feel a clenching in her gut, and her skin would burn. Then confusion would overwhelm her.
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